I heard a sound from the hallway. I spun to the door, my Glock aimed at the door.
I heard a key dig into a lock. I cocked my gun. Then I heard a door squeak open—not Roy’s door, the door across the hall.
“Jill, honey, it’s me, I’m home,” the voice called, then I heard the door close.
My heart was hammering in my chest. Adrenaline scorched my veins. I lowered the gun, collecting myself.
This cold-blooded murder stuff was harder than I thought.
I began to wonder if I could actually do it. Put a bullet in an unarmed man. I wasn’t worried about going to jail for his murder. I fully intended to put a gun in his dead hand and claim self-defense.
So why were my hands shaking?
Because I’m not a murderer, I realized. If I executed Roy Cooper I would be no different than the Gravesnatcher. No different than Ted Bundy, John Wayne Gacy, Jeffrey Dahmer—all those sick, perverted serial killers. No different than the gangbangers who shot complete strangers as an initiation. No different than the predators who roam the streets looking for children to slaughter. No different than the SOB who had shot Mom and Dad.
Epiphany. I still wanted to be a hero. Heroes didn’t murder people. I was glad I got it before I pulled the trigger. There’s nothing worse than a bolt of enlightenment a second after you’ve changed your life forever.
Hillary would be happy. I’d stood in front of that signpost on her infernal Road of Life and made the right decision. Okay, so now what? I was in Roy Cooper’s apartment, surrounded by incontrovertible evidence that he was the Gravesnatcher. If I wasn’t going to blow him away, I might as well call Mary Rocket and let the cops arrest him.
I started for the phone on the kitchen counter when I noticed something. A trash can in the corner of the room. I realized I never checked the trash, always fertile ground for clues. Hell, just ask Roy, that’s where he got my credit card number.
I had all the proof I needed that he was the Gravesnatcher. But I still hadn’t nailed down anything to point to a partner. So I dumped out the small living room trashcan. A couple cans of beer, a month old Maxim magazine, some junk mail.
The kitchen trash was just trash. Same went for the trash in Roy’s bedroom. But I hit gold in the bathroom. Hidden at the bottom, wrapped in an old tee shirt, was a small cassette tape. An answering machine tape.
What the hell was it doing in there, I wondered. I hurried back to the answering machine, swapped tapes and hit PLAY.
You were right. Kincaid’s an imbecile. You should’ve seen his face when I hauled him in. Later, partner.
Holy shit! I’d recognize that whiny fucking voice anywhere: Piccolo!
If I had my choice of two-timing backstabbing traitors, it would’ve been Piccolo. He must’ve called Roy after he dragged me into the station and we listened to the Doggieworld tape. He dragged me in even though he knew I wasn’t guilty. It was certainly a great way to draw suspicion away from himself.
Then it hit me. The greatest irony of all. I had warned Stacy and Mary Rocket about the leak in the department. I had told them to tell nobody, not even Piccolo, that Stacy would be doubling Lisa.
If Piccolo had known, they never would have planted that bomb. If Piccolo had known, Stacy would still be alive.
BRRRING.
The phone rang. I could pick it up, but what if it was Roy Cooper calling his machine to check for messages?
BRRRING.
I tried to remember how many times it rang before the machine picked up.
BRRRING.
Four, I thought.
BRRRING. “Who, what, where, when, why, how?” BEEP.
“Kincaid, it’s Roy Cooper. I know you’re in there.”
Oh shit, I thought, picking up the phone. “Hello.”
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”
“It’s over, Roy. I found the money, all the evidence. The only smart choice you’ve got left is to turn yourself in.”
“You’re the one with only one smart choice. Bring my money to the Hollywood sign at midnight tonight or I’ll kill the little blonde.”
“Hillary?”
“I’ve got her, Kincaid. Or should I say I’ve had her. Kissed her sweet lips. Sucked her milky white tits. And unless you’re there at midnight, with all my money, I’ll cut her fucking throat.” CLICK. He hung up.
That son of a bitch!
Fuck. I had to do something. I wrapped up the plastic bag full of money thinking that it I never should have let Hillary go back to the office alone. I should’ve anticipated Roy Cooper might’ve seen us as we entered the building. I should’ve kept Hillary with me, where she’d be safe.
I ran down the hallway, the sixty pounds or so of the money pounding me on the back.
Irony again. If I hadn’t planned to kill Roy Cooper I wouldn’t have sent Hillary away. If I’d just called the cops, Hillary would be safe now.
I took the fire stairs to the first floor. The exit opened onto Kelton. I ran for the street, then stopped when I realized I didn’t have a car. My Taurus was toast, and Hillary had driven us here.
Shit.
It was almost six o’clock. The sun was making a beeline for the horizon. And I wanted to make a beeline for the office. Not that I thought Roy Cooper and Hillary were still there. But if they were, if there was any chance I could rescue her now, I had to try.
But I couldn’t walk there.
Then, I saw a possible solution. A young couple walked out of an apartment building across the street. They were blond, athletic and attractive, probably actors, or models. They were dressed for tennis and carried rackets. They tossed the rackets in the back of an old red Fiat convertible.
“Excuse me,” I called running to them, the black plastic bag slung over my shoulder like some bizarre Santa Claus. “I need to borrow you car. Police business.”
The guy looked at me skeptically. “Let me see your badge.”
“It’s in my other pants.”
“Then forget about it.” They quickly got into the convertible.
“Wait,” I pleaded. “It’s an emergency.”
The girl was freaked. She pulled out a cell phone. “Get away from us before I call the police.”
“Tell you what,” I said. “I’ll buy the car from you.” I reached into the plastic bag, pulled out a stack of hundreds. “Here’s ten grand. This piece of shit’s not worth half that.”
He stared at the money, turning it over, checking to see if it was real.
“It’s genuine, trust me.” I threw him three more stacks. “Here’s thirty grand more. Go buy yourself a Mercedes.”
He must’ve liked that idea because he flashed a perfect smile.
“Mister, you just bought yourself a car. Come on, Pam.” They climbed out. I climbed in, dumping the plastic bag in the passenger seat. I started the car.
“Wait!” he screamed.
“Okay, whatever. How much more do you want?”
“No, the money’s fine. I want our rackets. They’re still in the back seat.” He grabbed them. I jammed the car into first gear and peeled out.
I broke them all. Traffic laws, I mean. Speeding. Failing to signal. Illegal passing on the right. Reckless driving. Failure to stop at a stop sign. Failure to stop at a traffic light. Failure to protect the only person left on earth who still cares about you.
I called the LAPD trying to find Piccolo but was told that Captain Rocket had given him a leave of absence to mourn.
This was bad and getting worse.
I squealed into my parking lot at 6:28 and hurdled the steps two at a time. My knees ached with the added weight of the money. My office door was open. I barreled through the door, dropping the money and pulling my gun. A quick sweep of the office told me what I already feared; they were gone.
Questions bombarded me. How could this have happened? Where were they now? Where would he hole up until midnight? What would he do to her until then? What had he done to her already? Had he really raped Hillary o
r was he just torturing me?
Something caught my eye, a pair of white panties sitting in the middle of my couch. Hillary’s panties.
That son of a bitch.
Now what? What was I supposed to do until midnight? The question was answered for me by a voice at the door. “Hello, Gideon.”
I turned and found myself staring at Jason Tucker. The former stalker, current escaped convict was holding a .44 magnum and pointing it at my heart.
I’d actually forgotten all about him. Once I’d eliminated Jason Tucker as the Gravesnatcher, I’d never given him another thought.
In the words of Rick “Tornado” Marshall: Big mistake.
“I’m not the Gravesnatcher.”
“I know.”
“Good.” He gestured with the gun. “Turn around.” I did. Then I felt the barrel of the gun smash into the back of my skull.
Then I felt nothing.
Afternoon Delights
“How you feeling?”
Hillary said nothing.
“Can I get you anything? Soda? Taco? There’s a Jack in the Box next door.”
Hillary shook her head. It was the only part of her body she could really move. Muscle control had returned as the effects of the Ketamine Hydrochlozide had worn off. But her arms were tied to her side and her ankles were taped together.
Roy stood by the window of the small room in the La Siesta Motel on Ventura Boulevard. It was a weather-beaten ’50’s remnant, with individual cottages, XXX movies and a primarily short-term-stay business. Like an hour, or less. Luxurious it wasn’t, but it was close to a Hollywood Freeway on ramp and a convenient place to hang out until it was time to head for the Hollywood sign.
After calling Kincaid, Roy had put the blonde’s clothes back on. Some muscle control had returned so he slung her left arm over his shoulder and walked her to his car as if she was drunk. The drive to the motel had been short, uneventful, and punctuated only by an occasional sob.
Roy looked at the blonde on the bed. She was pretty even when disconsolate. He knew she was afraid of him. Probably hated him. But he wanted her to understand him. If she knew what he’d been through, how Hollywood had raped him, she’d realize he wasn’t a soulless monster. He crossed the room, sat on the bed. She recoiled, squeezing herself against the wall to get as far away from him as possible.
I repulse her, he thought, saddened. But if she only knew the truth. “I’m an actor, you know.”
Her pale blue eyes ignored him.
“You ever see me on TV?”
Hillary shook her head.
“I’ve acted here, at this motel in an episode of Quicksilver. I was holding this girl, Izzie, hostage in this very room, and after a lot of back and forth with a hostage negotiator, I dragged Izzie to the parking lot at gunpoint. Cops were everywhere and SWAT sharpshooters were on the roof.
“And that’s where I had this fabulous death scene. A SWAT guy shoots me. Mortally wounded, blood gushing from my chest, I dropped to my knees and looked at Izzie, plaintively. That’s the word the script used, plaintively. Don’t you love that word? Plaintive? It sums up that miserable, forlorn feeling so perfectly. You’ve probably never felt that way, but let me tell you, I have. Well, I was plaintive and then some.
“Anyway, we shot the show three years ago but I still remember my final speech. Every plaintive word. Every plaintive inflection.”
Roy dropped to his knees in the middle of the motel room, recreating the blocking for his climatic scene.
“I’m sorry, Izzie. Sorry I stole your heart, only to break it. Sorry I made promises I couldn’t keep.” Roy broke character and said, “Next the director asked me if I could cry. I said, ‘Left or right eye?’ ‘Left eye,’ he said, sure I was full of shit. So, exactly on cue, a tear dropped from my left eye and I said, ‘Sorry we’ll never share another sunrise.’ ”
Roy slumped to the floor of the motel room, and with a tiny shudder, went still. Then he looked up at Hillary. “The whole crew applauded my death scene. Can you imagine? Battle-scarred veterans, applauding.”
Hillary watched Roy’s performance, dumbfounded. First he’d tried to rape her; now he was trying to impress her. What was with this guy? Actors, they were all alike. Emotional children always crying out, “Look at me!”
What the hell does he want? For me to tell him what a good actor he is? After he almost rapes me! After he kidnaps me!
Easy now, she thought. Focus. We’ve got to survive. Figure a way out of here. She’d heard his call to Gideon. Knew they’d be meeting him at the Hollywood Sign. She also knew that Roy Cooper would kill them after he got his money. He’d killed Winslow and Hunter. Killed Stacy.
She was fighting for her life now. Gideon’s life. Let the rage come later. She had to focus. Find a way to get untied. Find a way out of this room. And the first step was to give this sick bastard what he wanted. A compliment. Tell him how good an actor he was, but make it believable. So she said, “I’m not a battle-scarred veteran, but I thought you were good, too.”
Roy looked at the blonde, trying to read her face. “You really think so?”
“Yes.”
Simple, direct. Roy decided to believe her. “I really thought that guest shot would lead to my big break. I mean, I’ve got the chops to be a star. I could be Brad Pitt, Ben Affleck, Johnny Depp. I’m that good. I can cry from either eye!”
“How come?”
“How come what?”
“How come you don’t get those roles?”
“Because everyone’s out to get me. This nerdy director told me that the first week I came to town. ‘Guys like me love to get even with guys like you.’ That’s what he said to me. Why? Because I was handsome. Why? Because I was popular. Why? Because I got all the girls. ‘Well, tough shit, nerd boy,’ I thought. ‘I’ve got the goods and I’m going to be a star.’
“He did give me some decent advice, though. He said to train, study, work. And I did work. Got some decent gigs. Then I got my first real break, a TV pilot. Ramrod …” He trailed off as he remembered his rape by Jerry Marshall.
Roy looked at Hillary, suddenly filled with compassion. He knew how she must feel. He’d felt that way. Violated. Humiliated. Shamed.
Hillary sensed the sudden empathy, was confused by it. But decided to use it. “Something happened while you were making Ramrod?”
“What? Oh, no.” Roy shut his eyes tightly. “No. I was great but the show wasn’t. Story of my life.”
“Something must’ve happened. You killed Winslow.”
“Oh, yeah, well, when the pilot didn’t get picked up Winslow blamed me, not his dumb script.”
Hillary could tell Roy Cooper was lying but let it go.
Roy continued. “So, more acting classes, more workshops, more guest shots, then a big break. Starring in a feature film.”
“Jailbait.”
“How’d you know?”
“I saw the poster in your apartment.”
“Of course. Great, isn’t it? I love that look in Tiffany’s eyes. So innocently wicked, just like she was.”
“What happened to her?”
“Killed in a car crash. The police called it an accident. I know it was murder.”
“Murder?”
“You know the saying, ‘You’re not paranoid if everyone is out to get you’? Well, listen to this. Jailbait was a great script. Tiffany and I were great together. It was going to be a big hit and make me a big star. But David Hunter loved Tiffany. Was engaged to her. Tiffany and I had this chemistry, it was combustible, and … well, let’s just say we had a thing. Hunter found out, shut down the movie, probably killed Tiffany and spread rumors all over town that I had a drug problem.”
“Trying to ruin your career.”
“He did ruin my career. After that, no one would touch me. My career was over. What was I supposed to do, become a professional waiter? Clean swimming pools? Stock shelves at Ralph’s? I’ve got the chops. I’m as good as Pitt, Affleck and Depp. I can cry from eith
er eye! But my career was over. It wasn’t fair!”
Hillary figured it was time to use a little psychology. “David Hunter deserved to die.”
“You really think so?”
“Absolutely. He killed Tiffany. Killed your career. He had it coming. And Lisa Montgomery is a total bitch. Gideon told me what she did to you, keeping you off that movie. No wonder you wanted to dust her.”
“Spiteful shrew.”
“Tell me about it,” Hillary said. “You know what she did to me? How’s putting a gun in my face and tying me up ...”
Hillary trailed off as her eyes went to her bound hands and feet. Then she looked at Roy, who was also looking at her hands and feet.
Chagrined, he met her eyes. “Sorry about that, but I can’t have you running away now, can I?”
“If you untie me, I won’t run away.”
“You won’t?”
“No. Not if you promise that after Gideon gives you the money you’ll let us both go.”
“I will let you go. Promise.”
She searched his face. “I believe you. And if you untie me, I won’t run away. Promise.”
He searched her face. “I believe you.” Roy’s face softened. His fingers went to work on the ropes.
Hillary smiled gratefully. She tried to gaze into his green eyes with the naïve devotion of all the captivated women who must have been bedazzled by his looks and charm. But behind Hillary’s pale blue eyes a plan of attack was forming. A kick to the balls to disable him, fingernails into the eyeballs to blind him, the palm of her hand smashed into the bridge of his nose to kill him. Her karate teacher, Chang, had taught her these moves. She hoped they worked better than the ones she’d tried in her fight with Joan Hagler. Of course, if she could get Roy’s gun, she could just fire a warning shot between his eyes and be done with it. But where had he put it? Hillary’s eyes searched the room.
Meanwhile, Roy was busy with the ropes. The knot on her left wrist was stuck. As Roy twisted a fingernail between the tightly tied strands to get it started, he thought about her hands. Long and slender, well-manicured nails painted the same pale pink as her toes. Pretty. He wondered what they’d feel like caressing his chest. The knot finally gave, he pulled the rope through the loop and the ropes dropped from her hands.
Dead and Not So Buried Page 27
